


the sun rises behind you

by iksnilits



Category: Little Mix (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Awkward Blow Jobs, Crack, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Marriage, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iksnilits/pseuds/iksnilits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” he says, trailing off and hoping Malik will say something, anything, so he can get an idea of what he’s in for. Malik is a computer analyst, for crying out loud. Jeffries might as well have thrown them to the wolves. </p><p>Actually, wolves probably would have been nicer than this assignment.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>harry and zayn as undercover agents, posing as newlyweds in suburbia.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun rises behind you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marcellatjie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcellatjie/gifts).



> for the prompts : _something inspired by their initial 'miserable twattiness' towards each other to their rampant kisspering everywhere / spies AU where the only possible way to infiltrate a place and get proof of some really questionable business practices is to pose as a newly moved-in, newly married couple with a dog_
> 
> my FAVORITE tropes. thank you for these prompts, I hope you don't mind I combined them! 
> 
> huge thanks to my beta [velvetuberose](http://velvetuberose.tumblr.com), a transcendent beacon of hope and Knowledge. just amazing. incredible. I would have crashed and burned without them.

“Styles, nice job on the Bronsen account. Although next time, for the love of god, please try to ease up on all the…flourishes. Not everything has to be like the end of a Bond film.”

Harry’s tipped back at a dangerous angle in his overstuffed swivel chair. He toes one of his boots against the other, scowling. 

“Captain, I could have gotten him with both hands tied behind my back. While blindfolded,” Harry says, smirking and running a hand through his hair.

Across the hall, someone gives a slight cough of disbelief.

Captain Jeffries sighs longsufferingly. “What will we do with you,” he says, shaking his head. His double chin gives a slight wobble above his crisp white button-front.

“We could put me on the Benoit case, is what we could do,” Harry says, yanking his feet off his desk to swivel around and follow Jeffries’ back as he heads to his office.

“Or we could save thousands of dollars of insurance money, keep you inside where you can’t accidentally blow anything up, and put Malik on it,” Jeffries says, stopping next to Malik, who’s quietly rearranging the top drawer of File Cabinet No. 9.

“Pardon?” Malik says, glancing up and sucking on a papercut. 

“Sure,” Jeffries says, giving the man a once-over. “You’re smart enough. One of our top analysts – have you ever been in the field, hmm?”

“No, sir,” Malik says, confused, flicking a thick piece of hair out of his eyes.

Jeffries seems like he’s waiting for more, but Malik doesn’t provide any further information.

“Hmmph,” Jeffries says, sloshing his coffee on the carpet and lumbering back to his office.

There’s no way Malik’s getting put on the case, and Harry says as much.

“Well,” Malik says, his dark eyes glinting. He pushes his sleeves up. Harry can see dark veins of ink trailing his wrists. “I’m good here. I mean, I wasn’t the one who cost the department three surveillance vans and half an apartment building, not to mention the absurd amount of PR that went into making sure no one remembered you.”

Harry’s heard this a million times before.

“Whatever,” he says, arranging his fruit-themed post-it-notes along the edge of his desk. “A monkey could do your job. Pushing papers. Better clean that cabinet up, Malik, wouldn’t want to lose any important documents.”

“You couldn’t do my job, Styles. You can barely do your own,” Malik says, picking a nonexistent piece of lint off his all-black ensemble. 

“I can do my job just fine,” Harry says, and that’s a sad comeback, even by Harry standards.

Malik just looks at him scathingly and turns on his heel to stalk back to his cubicle. 

Anyway.

The Benoit case could really be his big break. Harry’s one big assignment away from leveling up into the upper echelon – which means more respect, more days off, and more money, which could help his organic backyard garden project really take off. Well, it’s more of a back-windowsill garden, since he lives in a crusty old apartment overlooking an alleyway full of trash.

They’re not really _spies_ so much as information gatherers. Malik gets the shitty end of the stick, stuck inside all day pecking away at his keyboard, hacking through firewalls and covering his tracks, while Harry, the people person, counts himself lucky enough to have the glamourous, PR-centered job. He poses as a stockbroker, rubs elbows all day, gaining ins and connections and access to private files (whether morally or somewhat immorally; Harry has perfected a terrifyingly strong mint mojito with a generous dash of ExLax). 

Harry is pretty sure they work for the government. Most of the assignments they take are geared toward eradicating corporations with conflicting interests, digging up dirt on specific, high-ranking businessmen, determining locations of foreign officials and letting other people deal with that, etcetera. He doesn’t really need to know, though. He’s cool with a little mystery.

Harry swivels back to his desk with a sigh. He just closed the Jantz account– pretty slick work, if he does say so himself. This guy had been skimming money off the top of his wife’s tech startup profits. She’d hired them to prove it, and Harry thought he’d been especially clever with his expert phone-tapping slash seduction methods. Men are so, so easy to manipulate.

He checks his work email, then his personal email, then his other personal email, and tracks his shampoo shipment on Amazon, which should be delivered in two days. Harry is very excited - it’s a ‘soothing blend of lavender and rosemary’ and is meant to stimulate the scalp and hair growth. 

He’s just about to start poking at the new assignment in his in-box when Jeffries clears his throat from across the room. 

“Malik and Styles, in my office, now,” Jeffries barks, shuffling back through his door and leaving it open behind him. 

In a rare moment of solidarity, Harry catches Malik’s eyes, and the general consensus seems to be - _what the fuck_.

Malik’s clutching a purple marker for dear life, the only sign he’s even remotely nervous. Harry’s doing no better, yanking at his necklace and pulling it back and forth to scrape against his neck. 

Is he getting fired? Harry thought he and Jeffries were past the whole Monroe incident besides good-natured teasing. Jeffries’ leg hair has probably grown back by now. And there’s no way Malik’s getting fired, no way, he’s too valuable. Even if he has the social skills of a meatloaf. 

The worst case scenario, Harry thinks, would be a reassignment to the mailroom - those guys are weird. He’s heard stories. 

Malik could be a really, really good field agent. He’s the perfect mix of magnetic and guarded - people are naturally drawn to him, but he’s also totally unreadable. When they first started, Malik was supposed to be on Harry’s first field assignment with him, but Harry’d begged to go solo and Malik was relegated to the office instead. 

It wasn’t like Harry had a problem with Malik. He just wanted to prove himself, show that he was capable of working for Jeffries and doing it right, on his own terms. And he pulled it off, but Malik never got the offer to be in the field again. 

In the beginning, Harry thought that he and Malik could be friends - or, if not friends, then somewhat friendly acquaintances. Once, Zayn had looked at Harry with interest and maybe some kind of misplaced attraction, Harry thought. Well, maybe it was just curiosity. Harry had been wearing his favorite sheer button-front with the palm fronds on it. Malik had given him a thorough once-over, stared at his mouth for a good fifteen seconds, then turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering something about spreadsheets. 

Harry thinks the current iciness directed toward his person might have had something to do with that time he spilled peach kombucha all over Malik’s comic book in the break room. He’d tried really hard to befriend Malik, but he wouldn’t even make eye contact. What Harry did to piss the guy off, he has no idea. 

Well, besides the fact that Harry’s single-handedly responsible for Malik's boring office job. There is that.

Now, Malik is just outright hostile, and Harry returns the attitude, even with the flicker of guilt that comes with it.

“Alright, boys,” Jeffries is saying. Harry tries his best to look alert and professional.

“For this assignment we’ll need something a little more… unorthodox. Of course that means we’ll also need our best agents. Which,” Jeffries trails off as he takes in the multicolored ink stains along Malik’s long fingers and Harry’s impressively wrinkled shirt.

“I suppose that means you. Unfortunately for the two of you, Agents Pinnock and Edwards are tied up in all that Brussels nonsense. So - here’s what you need to know for now. I’ll brief you in detail later. Winston Benoit and his business partner, Simon Conwall, are under investigation. Their law firm has been under scrutiny for a while - there’s no way they can be garnering the profits that they’ve shown to be making. They’ve also made reckless ultimatums concerning other firms in the area, have already been sued for malpractice, and Benoit has been accused of plagiarism numerous times in his recent ‘how-to lawyer’ book releases. In short, there’s something going on - financially, definitely, and most likely other shady practices. And that’s where you come in,” Jeffries says, leaning back against his desk and clasping his hands in front of him with thinly veiled amusement. 

Harry internally fistpumps wildly. Yes. This is it. Fame, glory, and fortune. Or at least a small raise.

“Styles, Malik, you’ll be posing undercover as a newlywed couple next door to Benoit and his wife. Extremely lucky for us there was a house on the market. You’ll settle in and befriend the Benoits, taking as long as you need to establish trust.”

Harry’s inner fistpumper wilts and crawls dejectedly back into the recesses of his heart. Malik is determinedly not looking his way. 

“And you’ll have a puppy!” Jeffries adds jovially. “Cute little lab. So normal. So friendly.”

He levels the two of them with a hard look, the grin dropping from his face. “I trust that you’ll handle the assignment with the utmost professionalism and discretion,” Jeffries says. 

“Of course, sir,” Malik says, businesslike. 

“Sir,” Harry says, nodding. 

Jeffries looks pleased, and slightly entertained. “Good,” he says. “I’ll send you the files later today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Malik says, and Jeffries herds them out the door, shutting it behind him. 

Harry pointedly stares straight ahead, walking beside Malik back to their desks. 

“Well,” he says, trailing off and hoping Malik will say something, anything, so that he can get an idea of what he’s in for. Malik is a computer analyst, for crying out loud. Jeffries might as well have thrown them to the wolves. 

Actually, maybe wolves would have been nicer than this assignment. 

Malik, true to form, rolls his eyes, sighs longsufferingly, and ambles down his hallway of filing cabinets.

+++

Harry pulls up to the address Jeffries gave them, sweating against the leather seat. Zayn’s right behind him, driving the moving truck stuffed full with brand-new Ikea furniture and thrift store purchases to furnish their new love den, which is what Harry has taken to calling it. Predictably, this annoys Zayn to no end, and is mostly why Harry continues on with the name.

“Honey,” Harry calls, as they climb out of the vehicles. Harry’s bright yellow banana-seat bicycle hangs precariously off the back of their new Volvo- a ‘family car’, Jeffries called it, and had handed him the key with unrestrained glee. 

“What,” Malik growls. 

“Help me with the keys, would you,” Harry says, attempting to balance two large boxes of kitchen supplies on his hips. 

“Fuck off,” Malik says, reaching into the van to grab his own suitcases. 

“Malik,” Harry sing-songs, pursing his lips. He’s so fun to rile up. “Sweetie. Open the door for me.”

Their house is somewhere inside a gated community - Harry’s pretty sure he’ll never find his way out, the roads are so confusing. Range Rovers abound, along with top-of-the-line minivans filled with small blond children in polo shirts. A thin woman picks her way down her walk next door, watching them as she pretends to check the mailbox. 

“You have to call me Zayn, asshole,” Malik grits out through a constipated smile. “We’re married, remember?”

“Wait,” Harry says. The boxes are pulling his khakis down. “Who took whose last name? Are you Zayn Styles? Or am I Harry Malik? We should have had these conversations beforehand.”

Zayn sighs, and the expression alone is still more attractive than ninety-nine percent of the population. “We’ll talk about it inside. Get moving.” He waves and smiles at the woman, who’s casually flipping through a Talbots magazine, sneaking glances at them. She seems to have some sort of fit. Harry can’t really blame her, though, he got his hand stuck inside the coffeemaker the first time he saw Zayn smile. 

“Okay,” Harry says, once they get inside. He yanks up his pants, a little too far because he has to pick the wedgie out. “We really should have, like, met up beforehand to talk about this. There’s so much we need to decide on. What if that woman had come up and asked questions? We can’t wing this, Zayn.”

Zayn’s sipping furiously at the watered-down dregs of his Starbucks. The sweating plastic cup has turned his fingers slick.

“I know, okay,” Zayn bites out, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. It’s swelteringly hot, of course they picked a heatwave to move an entire house in. 

Harry’s surprised. “Do you care at all about this job? I would have thought you were mature enough to put aside your blatant hatred for me for at least a few minutes. Zayn--”

Zayn, for the record, is fucking terrifying. Harry shrivels back under the sharp weight of Zayn’s glare. 

“I know. _Fuck_ , I know, Harry. Just - it’s disgustingly hot outside, I haven’t slept, we have nine hundred boxes left to bring in, and that woman is pretending to mow her lawn so she can look through our window. Give me just fifteen minutes. Okay? Fifteen. Then we can talk about our favorite colors, or whatever the fuck we need to do.”

“Sure. Yes,” Harry says, mollified, and watches as Zayn removes himself from the kitchen to lock himself in the laundry room, presumably to grump and sulk beautifully. 

Harry takes a few calming breaths and, to maintain inner peace, unpacks and organizes all the silverware. 

Zayn comes out seventeen minutes later, looking much calmer but Harry can see the stress in his tight, jerky movements. Zayn’s hands shake slightly, and he leans onto the counter across from Harry. 

“Jeffries texted me,” he says. “Jade’s bringing the puppy over in a bit.”

“Damn,” Harry says, stacking plates into the cupboards. “We don’t have a dog bed or food or anything.”

“I saw a Target on the drive over,” Zayn says, in an odd moment of helpfulness. “We should get everything out of the van, and then we can talk about all this.”

“Great!” Harry says, and swipes his hair out of his face. “We should decide now what our names are, just in case someone says hi while we’re unpacking. Should we hyphenate?”

Zayn slumps gracefully onto the counter, rolling his eyes. “Zayn Malik-Styles sounds horrible. No. We’ll just keep our own. Say we did it for business purposes. Branding and whatnot.”

“Zayn Styles-Malik isn’t that bad,” Harry says, but he makes for the door to get more boxes anyway, a lime-green dishtowel tucked into the waistband of his pants. 

After an hour of lugging boxes labelled ‘plant food and underpants’ and ‘spraypaint/rat skeleton/art shit’ up the front walk, both Zayn and Harry are drenched in sweat, at each others’ throats, and three seconds away from punching each other in the face at all times. 

“Fuck you,” Zayn grits out as Harry drops a suitcase on his fingers. 

“Don’t get in my way then,” Harry says, with a sweet smile. 

“Oh, is this a bad time?” Turning, Harry realizes it’s the woman that’s been staring incessantly since they arrived. Up close, she’s actually very pretty, in a suburban-wife sort of way. A very sweater-sets and leather clogs type of person.

“No, not at all,” Zayn says, extending a hand and a blinding smile. “Sorry, we’re a little rank! Been moving all morning.”

“So unseasonably warm for this time of year, isn’t it,” she says, grasping Zayn’s grimy hand delicately and brushing sandy blonde hair off her shoulder. “Anyway - I’m Julia Benoit, your new neighbor to the left! My husband and I were surprised by how quickly the house sold! And we’re very excited to meet you, of course.”

Harry is a mess of nerves, but thankfully manages to keep it together long enough for introductions. 

“As are we,” he says, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his pants. 

Julia nods politely. “Join us for dinner sometime this week? We’d love to introduce ourselves. Officially, I mean.” 

“We’d love to,” Zayn says.

“Wonderful,” Julia says. 

“Well,” says Zayn, after a few seconds of awkward eye contact. “Mrs. Benoit, it was a pleasure. If you’ll excuse us, we have a lot to get done. Especially with how slow this one is,” he adds, punching Harry’s bicep softly. 

“Heeey,” Harry says, rubbing his arm and pouting. “Maybe slow, but who’s been carrying in all the heavy boxes, Zayn?”

Zayn’s eyes flicker down to Harry’s upper arms and across his chest, where his sweat has formed a lopsided heart in the grey cotton. 

“He drops every other box on my feet though,” Zayn says, with a conspiratorial smirk at Mrs. Benoit. She giggles, light and airy, and waves as they head back to the van. 

Jade shows up just as Harry’s finishing the last of the things that were too big to fit in boxes. Thankfully, the sun’s almost behind the houses farther up on the hill, and it’s cooling down somewhat. Zayn’s sitting on the porch, feet in the grass since they don’t have any deck chairs yet. He took a cigarette break with only three boxes left - typical, Harry thought, and made a show of huffing and puffing and walking fast between the house and the van to finish. He’s just shutting the back doors as Jade’s little red Miata pulls up on the cobblestones.

“Sick car,” Zayn says appreciatively, levering himself off the porch. Jade grins, waving a hello to Harry and putting the driver’s seat forward to reach in and grab what is arguably the cutest puppy Harry’s ever seen. She hands the ball of reddish-gold fluff to Zayn and a leash and water dish to Harry. 

“From Jeffries,” she says, and Harry turns the dish in his hands, watching as the puppy squirms against Zayn’s chest and licks his face. Harry gets a little closer, scritching at its ears, and it sniffs his hand once disinterestedly before going back to drooling adoringly all over Zayn’s chin. 

Whatever. It’s not like it’s actually their dog.

“Thanks, Jade,” Harry says, and helps her get a couple bags of dog food out of her car while the puppy chases Zayn’s feet around the grass. Harry can’t really figure out who he’s more jealous of. Stupid.

Jade nods, all business. “Sure thing,” she says, and her hair kind of flutters in the wind. She looks different here, more soft than they do in the office while all buttoned up and slicked back. “I’ll be back periodically to check in. I’m the designated family friend, apparently,” and she laughs good-naturedly. “See you guys in a while. I’ll call beforehand.”

Zayn waves from where he’s trying to wrestle the puppy to the grass in order to clip on its leash. Harry rolls his eyes, patting the hood of Jade’s car as she backs out to the road. 

Any softness that found its way into Zayn’s face as he played with the puppy has slipped off. 

“Taking the dog for a walk,” he says, already a few sidewalk squares down the street, his back to Harry. 

“Cool,” Harry says, tightening his lips. “I’ll just, you know, be here.”

While Zayn is gone, Harry attempts to unpack more, but it gets overwhelming quickly. Both he and Zayn brought the contents of their apartments after terminating their leases since they’re not sure how long they’ll be here. So there’s two of everything, and Zayn will probably want his own drawers for his own stuff, and Harry doesn’t really feel like dealing with that tonight. 

He ends up stuffing all of his food into two cupboards and the bottom half of the refrigerator, then moves a dresser into the master bedroom and jams all his clothes in it, not bothering to fold anything. Zayn comes home from his walk to find Harry sprawled on the couch, unshowered and stuffing handfuls of raw spinach in his mouth from a bag. 

“Dinner?” Zayn says, raising his eyebrows. 

Harry shrugs, staring at the ceiling. “Can’t find any plates and it’s too hot to cook, so,” he says flatly. He’s really just now realizing that he and Zayn are going to have to interact all day, every day, until they get some dirt on Benoit. And they have to gain his trust first, which is not going to happen within one awkward dinner. He’s stuck in this house indefinitely with someone who’d rather be anywhere else. Harry can’t even go home to escape, because he doesn’t have one anymore. Fantastic.

Harry listens while Zayn pads around the house, looking arrestingly soft in maroon socks and baggy basketball shorts. 

“Saw you took the master bedroom,” Zayn says offhandedly, walking back into the living room where Harry’s still on the couch picking spinach from his teeth. 

“Oh, sorry, I only wanted to put my clothes away - we can switch, I’m sorry,” Harry says, sitting up abruptly, ready to go lug the dresser out again. 

“‘S fine,” Zayn says, muffled from where he’s digging through his boxes in the corner. “I like smaller rooms.”

“Well -” Harry starts, but Zayn slips out into the hall again, shampoo bottles and a grungy washcloth tucked under an arm before Harry can continue. 

Nice. Harry flops back down onto the couch, picking at the faded brocade. The puppy stares at him from the middle of the room, head on its oversized paws. 

“Lucky you,” Harry mumbles, getting up to fill its dishes with food and water by the sliding-glass door in the back of the house. 

After much digging around, he finds his sheets and blankets and showers off the day. The bare walls of his room really bring down the positive energy, but he manages to fall asleep to the faint sound of Zayn’s thin, reedy snores. Or maybe that’s the dog.

+++

He doesn’t have curtains yet, and the morning sunshine wakes him up at 5:45. Harry lets the dog out into the backyard after it slinks out of Zayn’s room, then goes for a slow, ambling run through the rows and rows of houses. He’s been going up for a very long time and still hasn’t reached any lookout point, but the houses are getting nicer and nicer as he climbs. Even for how slow he’s going, his quads are burning, so he heads back as the sun rises, the air growing too warm for his liking as he nears his street. Mrs. Benoit is already up, sipping a cup of coffee on her porch as Harry does his cool-down lunges and stretches along the sidewalk.

He gives a little wave, friendly-neighbor-like. 

“Trouble in paradise?” she calls, and he can barely make out a wink she throws him. 

“Sorry?” Harry’s confused, squinting at her. The sun’s rising above her roof, blinding him. 

She wraps her hands around her mug. “Oh - I couldn’t help but notice that your husband slept in the guest room last night. It faces the street, so…”

_What? Is this normal?_

“We’re fine,” Harry says, grinning wide and forcing himself to slouch a little, resting his hands on his hips to look more casual. “I forgot to shower before I passed out - I think Zayn was kinda tired, understandably. We’re back to one hundred percent now! Getting moved in and all.” 

He gives a light smile, another wave.

She seems to accept it as a valid explanation. “Good! And tell that handsome man of yours to keep the blinds closed next time.” She winks again. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Zayn would be an exhibitionist. It’s always the quiet ones. 

“Sure will. Have a wonderful morning, Mrs. Benoit,” Harry says, pasting on his most charming smile and power-lunging back up to his door. Some blond guy dashes out of the house to their right, shouting imaginative insults at someone named Liam. Classy, Harry thinks, but it’s a nice change from what he’s seen of the rest of the neighborhood, which seems to consist of bankers and their wives with a scattering of retired golf couples. 

Harry leaves his tattered New Balances on the porch and finds Zayn in the kitchen, groggily brewing coffee. 

“Don’t think you should sleep in the guest bedroom anymore,” Harry says, stretching up into the cupboard to reach his tea. Zayn tracks his movement sleepily, catching on the band of Harry’s ratty shirt as it rides up. 

“Why the fuck not,” Zayn says, his voice thick with sleep and exasperation. 

“Mrs. Benoit saw you last night, since you didn’t shut the blinds,” Harry says. “She asked if we were having trouble. You know, maritally.”

Zayn thumps a mug down on the counter. “I’ll shut the blinds, then. I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

Harry knew this is how it’d go. 

“You’d still see the light through the window. We can’t take that chance, Zayn. This needs to be as convincing as possible.”

Dumping a generous amount of vanilla creamer and Harry’s sugar alternative into his coffee, Zayn swivels to face him for the first time since Harry walked in. 

“So, what, were you planning on me sleeping with you? I’m not sleeping on the couch,” Zayn repeats, biting out each word cleanly. 

Harry did not fully think this through. 

“Well. I, uh. Yeah, I guess. I have a king-size mattress, so it’s not like we’d have to… come into contact.” Harry clears his throat. He’d carried in Zayn’s bed, a nasty little twin mattress with springs poking out. 

“Jesus,” Zayn mutters under his breath, tipping his chin up to look up to the ceiling and letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment. When he levels his gaze back down, Harry feels a little twitchy. 

“Fine,” Zayn says, staring him down. “But I’m not moving my shit into your room. It’s staying in the guest room. I will sleep in your room, because our neighbor is a nosy asshole, and because the sooner this is over, the better.”

“Good,” Harry says to Zayn’s back as he disappears around the corner, and why does it seem like he lost that argument?

“Don’t use my agave nectar in your coffee, please,” he calls, but Zayn is long gone.

+++

Later, Harry tries to pick through Benoit’s file, but it’s just so dry. While he would normally find all that tax-fraud and assorted shady business stuff captivating, it’s just… not doing it for him today. He leaves it spread out along the kitchen table, goes to fix a cup of tea, realizes that the tea canisters could use an organizing, and spends the next thirty-five minutes waffling between horizontal and vertical orientations. Zayn walks in to find him holding a tin of rooibos and frowning.

“I won’t ask,” Zayn says, shaking his head and filling a glass with water from the sink faucet. 

Harry wiggles the tin in between the breakfast tea and the coca tea Jade brought him from Peru. 

“Ew,” Zayn chokes, spitting his mouthful of water back into the sink. “Taste this. Does this seem off to you?”

Harry takes a sip, swishing it in his mouth. “A little... acid-y? Kind of bitter.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m not drinking it,” Zayn says, padding over to the sink to dump his glass, and Harry is reminded of a cat they used to have when he was younger. Marge (the cat) refused to eat the kibble if there was even the slightest amount of lint or stray hair touching the dish, and made pained, exasperated little faces not unlike the ones Zayn’s making now. 

“What are you grinning about?” Zayn grumps, setting the glass into the dish drainer. 

“Nothing,” Harry says, ducking his head to hide his smile and going back to poking uninterestedly at Benoit’s file. “How’s it going in there?”

Zayn researches with so much focused energy that Harry gets tired just watching him. Last Harry saw, he was scrunched into the arm of the couch, scanning some tedious-looking database of names. 

Zayn shrugs. “‘S fine,” he says. “Read the file, seeing what I can find in other places. Good to know what we’re working with, even if we don’t know what we’re looking for.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “I just wanna get into that guy’s office and read his emails.”

Harry’s favorite part about his job is reading other people’s emails, hands down. Might sound boring, but there’s something so interesting about discovering that uptight Mr. Galloway orders pink pizza-shaped fish tank stones for his guppy, Arnold, on top of running a money laundering operation. People don’t clean their inboxes well enough. Or their deleted mail, for that matter. You can still get to that easily. 

Zayn just shrugs again. “You’ll get to,” he says, and slinks out of the kitchen. 

Slinks. This is how Zayn moves, and it is infinitely distracting. 

Whatever. Back to reading about Benoit’s early childhood, which was extremely boring and impressively uneventful.

+++

Zayn’s typing away over on the couch, hunched over his laptop with a little crocheted blanket across his shoulders even though it’s even hotter in the house than it is outside. His hair sticks up in a spiky fan at the top of his head, and Harry has to force back a smile. The puppy jumps up to curl along Zayn’s shin and chew on the hem of his shorts.

“We should name the dog,” Harry says, folding himself into Lotus position on the carpet. 

Zayn doesn’t look up from his laptop. 

“I’m thinking something classic,” says Harry. “Jagger? Izzard. Vedder… maybe Keith?”

“We’re not naming the dog Keith,” Zayn says, incredulous. 

“Then suggest something better,” Harry says with a pout. 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Literally anything else,” he says, pausing his typing. “Zeus. Sarlacc. Thor. Ace the Bat-hound.”

Harry unfolds his legs stiffly. “You want to name the dog after the evil telepathic plant from Star Wars. That’s better than Keith?”

Zayn looks like he’s holding back a smile, and goes back to his laptop. 

“All good suggestions though,” Harry says diplomatically. “I like the superhero names. What about Space Canine Patrol Agent?”

Zayn coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. 

“Nah, too long,” Harry muses. “What about… The Bark Knight. Dogpool. Peter Barker?”

“Dear god,” Zayn mutters, his shoulders shaking. 

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, pleased. No one ever appreciates his puns. “Cerberus. Snoopy? Bane?”

“I like Bane,” Zayn says, looking up at Harry. The puppy thumps its tail happily against the couch, drooling a little on Zayn’s leg. 

“Bane it is,” Harry says, slowly. Zayn grins wide before he realizes what he’s doing, then clears his throat and ducks back down to resume whatever it is that he’s working on. 

“C’mere, Bane,” Harry says, flapping a hand at the dog. “Let Zayn hack things in peace. Let’s go read up on the evil Doctor Benoit.”

Later, getting ready for bed isn’t too awkward, since Zayn showers and changes in the guest room bathroom beforehand. With the blinds closed, thankfully. 

“Which side do you want?” Harry asks, crossing and uncrossing his arms as Zayn walks in, dripping slightly from his shower and smelling like bergamot, dark and sharp. Bane runs in along with him, ears a-flop and panting. 

“Don’t care,” Zayn mumbles, yanking his towel off his shoulders, and yikes, that is definitely something Harry never needed to see. His torso and arms are adorned with dark ink, tattoos wrapping up his wrists and sliding down beneath the waistband of his ratty black sweats. 

Harry needs a second to collect himself. “I usually, like, sleep on the left if I’m feeling stressed before bed, but the right is nice when you want to wake up in the sun, or you can sleep on the left and it feels a little softer -”

“Harry,” Zayn says, and his lips are pressed tight. “I don’t care. Pick one.”

“You pick,” Harry says, just to draw this awkward, awkward conversation out even more. 

“Goddamn,” says Zayn. He throws his pillow down onto the left side with surprising force, tucking his feet under the covers and stuffing his face into the bed. 

Harry is understandably distracted by the way the line of Zayn’s spine curves up to the dark little bird at the base of his neck and how his sweats pull tight against his legs. Bane jumps up to lick at Zayn’s ear. 

“No dogs on the bed,” Harry says weakly. 

“Shut the fucking lights off,” Zays says, muffled by the pillow. 

Harry shuts the fucking lights off. 

He wakes up to his radio alarm blasting that new Jason Derulo song and Zayn curled into a sleepy, rumpled ball three inches from his nose. Hopefully Zayn is cool with waking up at 5:30, he thinks, as he flails around to find the power switch to the radio. 

Predictably, there is no imaginable universe in which Zayn is cool with waking up at 5:30. 

The ball cracks one eye open. 

“Fuck off,” it croaks angrily. 

“Sure you don’t want to come run with me?” Harry asks, already two poses into his morning sun salutation. Bane joins him for downward dog.

Zayn flips him off and burrows deeper into his cocoon of blankets. 

Harry’s run is pretty excellent, if he does say so. He gets into that great mindspace where his breathing syncs up with his footsteps and it’s like he’s floating up the hill. It’s still early, but people are slowly emerging from their houses to get the newspaper or sip their coffee in their slippers. 

He really wants to get to the top. The last couple days he’s tried, it always gets too hot for his liking, but today is overcast and a little cooler. Plus, it’s all downhill on the way back. His legs are dying - he definitely should add squats and way more lunges to his body-weight exercises. Maybe he should get a gym membership. Or some free weights? 

Up ahead is a rusty-looking chain link fence, which circles around the top of the hill upon closer inspection. A couple giant pools of murky green water with metal scaffolding running along the tops lie inside. 

Looks like a water treatment plant, Harry thinks, and he’s about to leave, disappointed, when he sees the metal sign hanging to the fence by a loop of metal. 

_Greenview Water Purification_ , it reads. _For emergencies, call 917-555-3943 or dial 911. For all other inquiries, contact Benoit & Conwall Law Firm_. 

Interesting. Are water treatment plants privately owned? Zayn will probably know. 

The run back down is gray and muggy, and Harry can’t focus on his stride. 

When he gets back, Zayn’s tucked into a corner of their new porch swing (from Ikea - they’d almost murdered each other trying to assemble the damn thing together). 

Zayn looks for all the world like an ordinary man, sipping his coffee in the morning sun with his dog curled up between his knees and waiting for someone to give a dry, sleepy kiss. 

_This is a job, Styles_ , Harry reminds himself, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard.

Plus, Zayn hates him. So. 

Zayn pulls at a long piece of hair, winding it through his fingers, and Harry bites down harder. 

“Think I found something,” Harry says quietly, once he gets up on the porch. 

Zayn’s head snaps up as Harry toes off his mangy sneakers, faster than Harry’s ever seen him move in the mornings. Bane looks up too, alarmed, but Zayn scritches a hand through her silky fur and she goes back to eyeing squirrels. 

“What is it?” Zayn asks. He’s staring at Harry with a focused intensity that makes Harry’s face itch. He wants to hide, kind of, but he also has a weird urge to start taking his clothes off. 

Zayn is intense. 

“Er- just a coincidence, probably,” Harry says, rubbing his nose on his sweaty t-shirt. “At the top of this hill, there’s a sign -”

“You ran up there?” Zayn interrupts, aghast. Bane looks a little disgusted too, and hey. 

“It’s great for your cardiovascular system,” Harry says. “And your legs.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, sipping his coffee. It smells suspiciously like coconut. 

“Hey, is that my coconut milk? Did you use my food again?” Harry waggles a finger at Zayn in a way he hopes is threatening. 

“Not so loud, darling,” Zayn says, grinning and shrugging minutely. Bane leans over and drools on Harry’s ankle. 

“Fuck you,” Harry says, but he’s smiling. “That shit costs four pounds a pint. You know - you don’t deserve to know what I found. You want to know, you have to come up there with me tomorrow morning.” 

“No way,” Zayn mutters, wrinkling his nose, but he glances back up at Harry a second later. 

Harry grins. 

Got him. 

+++

The rest of the day is more of the same, catching up on new information from Jeffries and writing reports of what they’ve got so far. Benoit’s file is gigantic - pages and pages of legal jargon that Harry has to stop and Google to understand every five lines. 

Zayn still hasn’t unpacked anything, and all his boxes teeter haphazardly in the living room, which drives Harry crazy. Finally, Harry starts unpacking them for him - which, really, Zayn should appreciate the help, but he glares at Harry menacingly until Harry backs away from his boxes, and Zayn finishes putting his shit away alone. As it should be. 

Zayn doesn’t push Harry any further about what he found on his run, and Harry’s almost given up on the whole ultimatum he gave Zayn, until the next morning. 

Harry would almost feel bad about taking advantage of Zayn’s insatiable curiosity and complete dedication to Knowing Everything, but any such guilt is immediately quashed when Zayn emerges from the house in tiny little gray split-side shorts, giant white trainers, and a black mesh basketball jersey that almost reaches the hem of his shorts. Bane’s panting, tied to Zayn’s hand by her leash. 

Surprisingly, his legs are still as tan as the rest of him, and while they are almost painfully skinny, they’re weirdly well-muscled. Kind of distracting, honestly. Without the shoes, Zayn looks like he should be spread out on a giant bed for some kind of photoshoot - very sportsgoth. 

Okay. Enough drooling over your fake husband. 

“C’mere, babe,” Harry calls, jogging in place and waiting for Zayn to make his way down the walk. 

“Shut the hell up,” Zayn grits out, forcing a smile through clamped-shut teeth and waving at the two boys to the right of them, who watch from their porch with badly concealed amusement. 

Bane sees a squirrel and makes a break for it, yanking Zayn along the sidewalk, and Zayn goes flailing and cursing in a flash of mesh jersey. 

Harry would give his left nut to have a videocamera right now. 

“How long is this damn run,” Zayn pants after three steps down the sidewalk. 

“About four miles,” says Harry, trying not to smile because Zayn is completely out of his element, even if he does look completely beautiful sweating in tiny shorts. 

“I can’t run for four miles,” Zayn wheezes between breaths. “You’re gonna have to carry me, you asshole.”

Zayn’s helpless fury is so, so satisfying. “Half of it’s downhill,” Harry says, but he eventually takes pity on Zayn after he collapses into a sweaty, moaning heap on the side of someone’s flower garden, and they walk the rest of the way. Briskly. 

The morning’s starting to warm up, and Zayn’s looking kind of pale - maybe this wasn’t a great idea. Harry should have just told him, in hindsight. 

Bane doesn’t really care, thankfully. She’s happy to be outside, and licks Zayn’s calf occasionally, leaving little swirls of slicked-up leg hair. Harry finds that endearing, which is probably a warning sign of something or other. 

Finally, Zayn perks up a little as they come up on the fence, and Harry points them toward the sign. 

“ _This_ is what you dragged me all the way up here to see? Harry -”

Zayn looks like he’s about to either pass out or explode. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry says quickly. “But it’s good, right? Good info?”

“Sure,” says Zayn tiredly, swiveling on his heel to start trudging back down the hill. “I’ll think about it.”

“Cool,” Harry says, and feels bad enough that he doesn’t talk much the rest of the walk down. Zayn, however, is weirdly talkative in his own sarcastic and biting way, making jabs at Harry’s admittedly duck-like running form and other assorted people roaming the neighborhood. 

Zayn has never actually, like, talked to him before. Harry tries to shut up so Zayn might slip and actually tell him something about himself, but that doesn’t happen in the two miles they walk back down. 

Zayn heads straight for the door as they near the house, Bane tagging along at his heels. 

“Wait! You have to cool down properly,” Harry calls, rolling his eyes at the two middle fingers Zayn flips over his shoulders. 

Zayn’s lying spread-eagle in the middle of the lawn, close to death, and Harry’s only done two half-assed hamstring stretches when Mrs. Benoit calls over to them from her porch. 

“Yoo-hoo! Boys!” she calls, waving. 

“Morning, Julia,” Harry says. 

“Sup,” says Zayn, lifting his head momentarily, then straightens up when he realizes he essentially bro-nodded at her. 

She smiles anyway. “Dinner tomorrow night? My husband wants to meet you! We’re surprised he hasn’t run into you yet.”

Zayn shoves a hand through his sweaty hair, catching his fingers on his little hair-bun-in-training. “We have weird schedules - but yes, that sounds great, we’d love to.”

“Fantastic!” she chirps. “How’s seven?”

“Sure thing,” Harry says, smiling sweatily. 

She looks pleased, folding her newspaper in two and heading back insides. 

“Mayday, mayday,” Harry whispers, flopping down onto the grass next to Zayn. 

“Why,” Zayn says, scratching at his nose. “We’re in, bro.”

They’re both on their backs, staring at the sky in the morning sun. Bane’s head is flopped on Zayn’s shin. Harry can feel his face turning pink and a little burnt, but there’s a nice breeze and the clouds are cotton-white against the blue of the sky. Zayn’s arm is brushing his, neither of them moving away, and this feels like a momentous occasion.

“Sure we are,” says Harry, quietly so as not to disturb the stillness. “But now we need to actually know the things that married couples know about each other. We haven’t even decided what we do for work yet.”

Zayn makes a muffled ‘ugh’, which Harry can sympathize with. 

God help them. This is going to be a total shit-show. 

“We’ll do this inside,” Zayn says a minute later. He’s thrown a forearm over his eyes to block out the sunshine. “I’m gonna stay out here a little longer.”

“I’ll get Bane water,” Harry says, turning to look at Zayn, who is nothing less than blindingly beautiful. From this close, Harry can see he’s got a couple blackheads, his hair is greasy from sweat and sleeping on it funny, and his elbows are kinda dry. None of which makes him any less attractive. He just looks more human, more approachable in the bright sunlight. 

Also, Zayn’s acting almost cordial, which is weird.

Harry presses his arm a little more firmly against Zayn’s before rolling over to get up, and the corners of Zayn’s mouth turn up in a bit of a smile. 

“C’mere, Bane,” Harry says, huffing with the effort to lever himself off the cool grass. Bane sneezes on Zayn’s foot, then follows Harry into the house with a last glance at the yard. 

The day passes as usual, with Zayn on the couch glued to his laptop and Bane attached to his side. Harry’s still holed up in the kitchen, and Zayn comes in every so often to get food or tell Harry some weird fact about Benoit that he’s found in his research.

Harry is easily distracted, and he’s made his way through Benoit’s giant file, so he just tools around on the internet until supper. WikiAnswers is a trove of knowledge. Before he knows it, Zayn’s come back in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It’s dark outside, and Harry realizes his ass really hurts from sitting on the rock-hard Ikea furniture. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but not ergonomic. 

“‘M going to bed,” Zayn says through the middle of a yawn. 

“Wait,” says Harry, panicking. “We need to make us up.”

“Can’t we figure it out tomorrow?” Zayn says, flopping into the metal chair across from him. “We have all day to talk about ourselves. I’m sure that will be more than anyone could take.”

“The key to lasting relationships is constant communication,” Harry says, tidying his papers, which have flowed over the table onto the floor. 

“That’s nice,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. “Did you get that off a fridge magnet?”

Harry wants to wipe the smirk off his face. “You’re insufferable,” he says, grinning. “Yeah, I’m beat. Let’s call it a night.”

Zayn’s smiling at the floor too.

“Wait, can I use your shower?” Zayn asks, eyes wide in what he must think is an endearing look. Which it is, but that’s - irrelevant. “The drain in mine keeps plugging up and overflowing. It won’t dry out and I’m allergic to mold.”

The idea of Zayn being allergic to anything is, for some reason, wildly funny. 

“Sure,” Harry says, containing himself. 

By the time Zayn’s done with his shower, Harry is an anxious pile of goo and frustration. 

Zayn had the nerve to peel off his sweats and tank top in the middle of the bathroom while Harry brushed his teeth, then hopped in the shower, a flash of skin and ink against the crocheted shower curtain. A pair of stretchy-looking red briefs landed on the carpet next to Harry’s slipper-shod foot. 

Harry can now hear a warbly humming noise and it sounds a lot like that Fergie song. The one about the humps. Billows of steam are starting to erupt from the top of the shower, light and citrus-scented, which curl the baby hairs at Harry’s temple. His teeth have gone un-brushed for at least five minutes due to the shock, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Zayn was fucking with him. 

Whatever. Just because Zayn’s miraculous body is outlined in graphic detail like some pornographic shower curtain ad doesn’t mean he has to be a massive creeper. 

Harry gathers his strength, rinses twice with mouthwash, and tucks himself into bed closest to the wall so Zayn can climb in. He definitely does not think about how Zayn is probably still naked and covered in Harry’s lemon verbena body soap. In his soap! Stolen soap.

That asshole. He was probably the one kid in uni who ate everyone else’s food out of the dorm fridge even when people had neatly and obviously labeled it. 

Harry still holds a grudge about that strawberry cheesecake his second year. Honestly, people are so inconsiderate. 

His line of thought is interrupted by Zayn slipping out of the bathroom in a giant cloud of steam, pulling his damp hair back into a topknot, and straightening out the band of his dangerously low-riding sweats. 

Zayn slumps against the headboard. Bane, the sneaky asshole dog she is, wiggles up under Zayn’s elbow, tail whacking Harry’s chest. Harry reaches over and scratches her ears, even though she smells like old beef and dandruff. 

“Okay,” Zayn sighs. “Jobs first. Then everything else.”

Harry sighs, trying to relax into the bed, and Bane takes the opportunity to lick his face. 

“Yes,” Harry says, wiping his chin. “Okay. Obviously we haven’t left the house for a week, and our neighbors probably noticed because they’re creepy as fuck. I was thinking we’d say that you work from home and I took the week off to move.”

Zayn nods. “Good. I’m a graphic designer.”

Harry realizes that there may be some kind of truth to Zayn’s answers, even if he doesn’t mean it. 

“Yoga instructor,” Harry says, after a beat. 

“They’re gonna ask what studio,” Zayn says, pulling at the sides of his topknot to loosen the tight hairs.

“I’m a private instructor,” Harry says. “Very exclusive. There’s a list.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Whatever. That’s fine.”

“Good,” Harry says, closing his eyes in the dim glow of the lamp. “When did we get married? How did we meet? Why did we move here?”

Zayn looks a little overwhelmed, to be honest. Still bored, but his eyes are a little wider, and Harry feels a slight sense of accomplishment at being able to decode Zayn’s facial expressions.

“Um,” Zayn says, mindlessly rubbing at his stomach. “Married three weeks before we moved in. Haven’t taken a honeymoon yet, we’re thinking the Greek Isles or Fiji. We met through a mutual friend.”

“So boring,” Harry pouts, rolling his eyes. “I object. We met online, on PrivateInvestigatorBabes.com, obviously.”

“God, no,” Zayn says. “Do I look like the kind of person who resorts to online dating? We met through a friend from uni. Predictable and normal. We moved here because it’s closer to your workspace and we’re starting to settle down together.”

“Lame,” Harry says, pouting and twirling the sheets around his fingers. “No, you don’t look like that sort, since all you have to do is go outside and stare blankly off into space and people flock to your feet.”

Zayn gives him a weird look. “Anyway,” Zayn says, slouching deeper into the mattress. “Anything else?”

“Nah,” Harry says. “Those are the usual questions. We can think about it. Won’t be that hard.”

Zayn sighs longsufferingly. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Excuse me,” Harry says. “I’m a stellar performer, I’ll have you know.”

“We’ll see,” is all Zayn says, yawning and flicking off the light. 

Bane takes advantage of the darkness to climb above their heads and flop down above their pillows like an oversized cat. Suffocation by dog is really not how Harry wanted to go out. But Bane’s mostly on Zayn’s pillow, so it’s okay. 

Zayn and Bane. Bane and Zayn. Harry giggles. 

“Shush,” Zayn grunts into his pillow, and Harry keeps quiet long enough for Zayn’s long, steady breaths to turn into whuffling snores.

+++

They forgot to close the curtains last night, so Harry wakes up to sunshine toasting his back where the blankets pulled off. More specifically, where Zayn had pulled the blankets off. He’s a filthy blanket stealer, Zayn is. Harry wakes up every morning freezing cold with about three square inches of sheet while Zayn is rolled into a snug little blanket burrito.

Waking up isn’t so bad because of the sunshine, and Harry feels syrupy, warm and slow, his face buried in the crook of Zayn’s neck. Bane’s curled up at the foot of the bed, one eye open to watch Harry just in case he gets up to get her food. 

Zayn is like a space heater. Harry wiggles his fingers closer in his sleepy stupor, seeking out the heat radiating from Zayn’s bare skin. The slight dip of Zayn’s waist is the perfect shape for his hand, and Harry doesn’t think twice before pressing his fingers in, scooching closer, and falling back to sleep with a mouthful of Zayn’s hair. 

Harry dreams about rabbits in a field, which is weird. Nothing else - just rabbits hopping around and drinking little teacups full of water. 

He wakes up the second time wrapped firmly around Zayn, half smashing him into the mattress, and he can feel Zayn, obviously awake, breathing choppily.

Harry gently disentangles himself from Zayn to flop back onto his side of the bed and stretch a little. It’ll minimize awkwardness if he acts like Zayn was asleep, he figures. 

Zayn makes quiet sleepy noises as he pretends to wake up, then dashes for the bathroom with his back to Harry. 

The rest of the day is spent in quiet disarray, preparing for the dinner - Zayn tears the guest room apart to look for his nice pants, Harry frantically tries to come up with a backstory for where they’re from, and Bane has an accident, then rips up the rug to hide it. By the time 6:00 rolls around, Harry’s a sweaty mess and Zayn’s on the couch groaning in despair. 

“Snap out of it,” Harry says wildly. “We have one hour until we either make or break this entire account. Get in the shower. Wear your black trousers and a nice shirt. Go.”

Zayn makes a face at Harry that looks like it’s supposed to convey appreciation, but misses the mark by miles. 

Harry’s showered, gotten a nice bottle of wine from the supermarket, and moved the soiled rug into the backyard all by 6:45. Zayn, however, is still in the bathroom, presumably fixing his hair. By the time he emerges, it’s 6:50 and Harry is a puddle of anxiety on the couch. 

Zayn looks eerily calm in his wrinkle-free, form-fitting, all-black outfit. 

“Barefoot, really?” he says, crinkling his nose at the bottle of wine Harry’d picked up. 

“Well, it had a nice label,” Harry says defensively. “Let’s go, we’ll be late.”

“They’re literally ten steps away,” Zayn says, but he walks a little faster to grab his wallet and keys, which Harry appreciates. 

The Benoit’s front door seems overly large and looming as they walk up the front steps. 

“Like we said,” Zayn says, fiddling with his cuffs. He looks completely poised, but Harry can see the slight tremor in his hands. 

“I know,” says Harry, and grazes a palm over the small of Zayn’s back in reassurance. 

Ringing the doorbell feels like an incredibly definite step. Harry knows that this first dinner is necessary to gain trust, but it still feels monumental. He and Zayn are in this for years, potentially, until they can solve this. 

That train of thought is really not helping. Harry focuses on the gardenias to the left of the porch instead. 

Julia opens the door with a flourish, hugging both of them and taking the wine from Harry. 

“Just come on in - dinner’s almost out; thank you for the wine, dear,” she says, ushering them into the foyer to slip their shoes off. 

Mr. Benoit’s perched on a stool at the kitchen counter when they walk up. He’s - weirdly hot, Harry thinks. 

“Winston Benoit,” he says, sliding off the stool to shake their hands. He’s got the whole 60’s Bond villain look going for him, thick dark hair pushed neatly up above his well-moisturized forehead and a thin linen shirt tucked into ironed khaki trousers. 

“Thank you for having us, sir,” Harry says, after introductions. 

“Of course,” says Benoit, leading them into the dining room upon Julia’s command. “We wanted to meet the new neighbors. Now, tell me, why did you two choose Greenview? Doesn’t seem like your kind of neighborhood, if I’m being honest.”

Harry glances over at Zayn, whose lips are set just tight enough to notice. Benoit’s looking at Harry, a cordial smile on his angular face. He doesn’t blink, and his eyes don’t move as he waits for their answer. 

Zayn saves the day. Thank heavens, because Harry’s small lizard brain is obviously incapable of handling extreme stress. 

“This was in our price range and close to Harry’s work,” Zayn says, his body language relaxed and easy as he sits down at the table after Benoit. Julia rushes in with a plate full of steamed vegetables and mashed potatoes, and thankfully Benoit accepts the answer with no further questions. 

“So,” Julia says brightly, as they pass around the dishes of food and Benoit fills their wine glasses. “I’m so glad you boys could join us! How have you been settling in?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Harry says brightly. “We’re almost getting into the swing of things.”

“I see them running all the time,” Julia says, mostly to Benoit, but she winks at Harry. 

“Oh, do you?” asks Benoit, folding his napkin into his lap. “Where do you go?”

Harry feels like he should lie about the water treatment facility, but there’s a giant painting of a glowing Jesus holding several lambs hanging on the wall across from his seat, and that’s enough to guilt-trip anyone. 

“Up,” he says, gulping a sip of wine. “Around. I don’t know anything that well yet.” And lying by omission isn’t really lying. Jesus still looks pleased, so there’s that. 

Julia nods and turns to Zayn, a large piece of chicken dangling off the end of her fork. “It’s a confusing layout. And what about you, dear, do you run too?”

“God, no,” Zayn laughs. “Once was more than enough. Walking to the coffeepot is the extent of my daily workout.”

Benoit laughs, his eyes crinkling up into what looks like a real smile, and Harry relaxes into his plastic-covered seat cushion. 

The rest of dinner goes well, full of chatty social pleasantries, and Harry doesn’t spill anything on his shirt so he counts it as a success. At least until Julia asks about the wedding, and somehow they veer back into dangerous territory. 

“Tell me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Who proposed? How did you do it?”

“She’s a sucker for proposal stories,” Benoit says, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. 

“Ah,” Harry says eloquently. Fuck. How could he have overlooked this?

“Well,” Zayn hesitates. Harry seizes the opportunity, running with it like a starving raccoon and a handful of dog food. 

“It’s just so romantic,” Harry says, leaning over to cup Zayn’s cheek softly. “You tell it so much better than I do, love.”

Zayn makes a small sound that was probably supposed to sound affectionate but instead comes out as a phlegmy cough. 

“Harry proposed,” Zayn says quickly. “Ah - he - uh,” he says, looking up at three expectant faces. Julia’s propped her chin in both hands wistfully. 

“It was at a concert,” Zayn says after a beat, having apparently had some stroke of genius. “Who were we seeing again, Harry?”

“Um. It was a Pearl Jam tribute band,” Harry says.

“Right,” Zayn says. Zayn hates Pearl Jam. “Forgot, it was all kind of a blur. We were outside, walking back to our car…”

“Go on,” Julia says, sighing. 

Zayn seems to have hit a wall. 

“It was such a nice night,” Harry jumps in, squeezing Zayn’s hand, which is damp with sweat and actually feels really gross. “There were, like, so many stars, which I thought was neat because you can’t see anything in the city at night because of all the pollution, but here there’s way more. Not as much as the country, but a lot better than most places, it was really bright - “

“Yep,” Zayn interrupts, catching his second wind. “We were walking under the stars, and we passed this weeping willow tree we must have missed on the walk there. Harry pulled me under and we laid on our backs and watched the stars from under the branches.”

“And then I said, ‘Will you marry me, darling,’ and he couldn’t hear me because of how loud the concert was, so I had to yell it at him four times before he heard me,” Harry says. 

“And he forgot the ring in the car,” adds Zayn, “so he made me a ring out of a Burger King straw wrapper he had in his pocket.”

“How… romantic,” Benoit says.

Julia cocks her head and coos. “So adorable! You two are the absolute cutest.”

Harry laughs nervously and chugs the rest of his wine. 

The night winds down. Zayn and Harry help Julia bring all the food and dishes back to the kitchen, where her three white cats hiss and yowl at Zayn and somehow manage to coat his legs in cat hair without actually touching him.

Zayn’s acting kind of weird, and drinks two glasses of lukewarm tap water in quick succession as Harry almost drops the green beans on a cat. 

When the dishwasher is loaded, Harry and Zayn say their thanks again, shake Benoit’s hand once more, and make a break for the front door as slowly and politely as they can. 

Once they’re outside, Harry lets out a massive sigh of relief. He can actually feel all his muscles un-tensing. 

“That went well, I think,” Zayn says, closing his eyes in the coolness of the night. 

Harry just hums his agreement. It did go well, and now he wants to get in bed and sleep for as long as humanly possible. 

“Remind me to talk to you about the water tomorrow,” Zayn says, and yawns so wide his jaw cracks.

They get ready for bed as usual, but Zayn joins him in the bathroom to brush his teeth, having somehow migrated all his toiletries into the master bathroom without Harry noticing. Zayn’s elbow bumps his as they brush, and it’s the nicest thing Harry’s felt all day. 

Harry makes sure to tie the curtains shut over the blinds tightly to avoid an early morning, then clambers over Zayn into the wall side of the bed because he can keep more of the blankets on him that way. And also so he doesn’t get shoved off, because Zayn sleeps like a starfish when he’s exhausted. 

The fact that Harry knows all these intimate details about Zayn’s sleeping habits should probably freak him out, but right now he’s too tired to think about it too hard. His sheets smell like Zayn’s shampoo. Harry shoves his face under the corner of Zayn’s pillow and falls asleep to the steady chirp of crickets outside.

+++

Harry jolts awake, the room pitch-black except a small string of light streaming out from below the blinds. It lines up with the stretch of his and Zayn’s legs, drifting off into Bane’s fur at the bottom of the bed. Harry takes a bleary second to appreciate the aesthetic of it before realizing that Zayn’s legs are tangled in his, Zayn’s hips are shoved up against his lower back, and Zayn is making decidedly inappropriate noises into his hair. 

Harry’s leg twitches and starts to fall asleep. Zayn starts mouthing his lips over the back of Harry’s neck, dragging on the skin slowly, and Harry’s half-conscious, his entire body prickled with goosebumps. He can feel himself getting hard in a lazy, sleep-drunk sort of way. 

Zayn’s rubbing a little harder into the small of his back when he seems to wake up, his breathing changing and legs tensing, and Harry holds his breath. 

“Shit,” he can hear Zayn whisper, slurred and quiet, and he feels Zayn start to pull his hips back. 

“‘S’okay,” Harry mumbles, reaching an arm back under the thin sheet to pull Zayn’s warm thigh back flush against the back of his. Zayn stays tense for a moment more, then relaxes minutely and snugs his hips down under Harry’s ass, slipping a leg between Harry’s. 

Harry’s so, so warm even under the thin sheet. Zayn’s hard against him, his hips jerking in small little pushes like he can’t help himself.

Never let it be said that Harry Styles can’t make the most of a situation. 

Under the pretense of stretching and rearranging his arms, Harry arches his back, rubbing harder against Zayn’s crotch. He knows what he looks like - the curve of his spine, the way his ass looks when he moves his hips and pulls his legs up, and he can hear Zayn suck in a shaky breath. 

Harry’s close to fully awake, and he knows Zayn is too. Neither of them are being particularly subtle about what they’re doing. 

Fuck that, Harry thinks. They’re both adults. If Zayn wants to hump Harry into oblivion, then let it be. 

Harry grinds slower, moving his hips in little circles. He’s had his fair share of hookups, and this is his favorite part, the teasing. Zayn’s a hard line behind him, the fingers of one hand digging into the soft swell of Harry’s hip and the other resting just under his shoulderblade. 

Zayn dips the hand on his hip a little lower, so it’s tucked under the band of Harry’s waistband, just pressing his fingers in. 

“Goddamn,” Zayn says into the back of Harry’s neck, shifting so he’s pinning one of Harry’s legs to the bed with his thigh and grinding into the space between Harry’s legs. 

“Come on,” Harry pants, wanting more, and Zayn reaches farther into Harry’s briefs. The first brush of Zayn’s hand against his cock has Harry gasping out a breath, and Zayn strokes him with a slow, tight grip that’s nowhere near what he needs. 

Harry brings Zayn’s hand up to his mouth and licks at the palm, then sucks on two fingers for good measure - at that, Zayn makes a sound like he’s dying - and shoves it back down around his cock, gripping around Zayn’s hand to show his how tight to pull. 

He hasn’t seen Zayn’s face once, but it’s unbelievably hot that way. Harry can hear Zayn panting and can feel his choppy breaths interspersed with moans when Harry grinds back just right. 

Zayn’s got a hand in his own briefs too. Harry’s honestly impressed by his multitasking skills. He’s close, trapped between Zayn’s slick fingers and hard cock snug up against his ass, but Zayn keeps slowing down every time Harry thinks he’s about to come. He moans into the pillow in frustration, reaching a hand back to yank his briefs down to the tops of his thighs to maybe egg Zayn on a little. 

Zayn groans long and loud, gripping Harry tight and shivering. Harry hears the rustle of sheets and Zayn lets go of his cock for a second - then the warm press of skin against his thighs and Harry feels the slick drag of Zayn’s hard length along his lower back and down his ass, resting hot between his thighs. 

Zayn reaches around again, his hand newly wet with what must be his own spit, and Harry feels the slap of Zayn’s fist against the back of his thighs as he pulls them both off. Zayn’s rhythm falters after a long minute, and Harry shoves Zayn’s hand away so he can pull at his own cock, arching his back up again to push his ass up. 

“Fuck,” Zayn mumbles, his voice wrecked and low. He presses his cock down into the tight clench of Harry’s thighs, his precome almost making a slick glide, but it’s still too dry and the accidental slip of Zayn’s cock right up behind his balls and against his hole is sudden and achingly hot. Harry’s so close. Zayn pushes the head of his cock up again, intentionally this time, and rubs it slick against Harry’s hole, and Harry can feel it lined up behind him, hard and thick, and the catch of Zayn’s finger around his rim is what makes Harry come all over the sheets under him, so fast and good that it hurts to unclench his fingers from his cock. 

Zayn’s fingers rub against his hole, not pushing in but just tracing the rim and down around his balls. Harry can feel Zayn’s hand shaking until hot splashes of come land on his ass, and Zayn moans low and long, rubbing his come over Harry’s hole, slick and hot. Harry arches his ass up once more for the visual, then collapses into the bed. 

They’re both panting, the air thick with sweat and sex. 

Zayn giggles incredulously, wipes them off with Harry’s underwear, and snuggles back to tuck a hand back over Harry’s hip. Harry is boneless, sinking down into the bed in a fuzz of endorphins. Zayn sighs behind him sleepily, and Harry would say something if he could get his mouth to work right. 

As it is, they fall back asleep until Bane wakes them back up, glaring at them disgustedly from the foot of the bed. 

Zayn’s predictably awkward, glancing at Harry with the sheets snugged up around his chin. 

“Um,” he says, looking anywhere but Harry. “I’ll go feed Bane.”

“Sure,” Harry says, and smacks Zayn hard on the bum as he gets up. Zayn yelps, looks even more awkward, and scurries out of the bedroom, yanking his sweatpants on as he goes.

+++

Jade stops by once more with a dog kennel filled with new folders of information on Benoit. Harry appreciates the commitment to espionage, but really, that’s overkill. He could have just gone and picked them up later. 

“Where’s Malik?” Jade asks, scratching Bane’s ears. They’re out on the back porch, escaping the relentless afternoon sun under Harry’s giant umbrella chairs. 

“Off doing god-knows-what,” Harry says. “He took the Volvo earlier. Said he’d be back in a bit.”

Jade nods. “And how are things going? You guys all settled in?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, drawing it out. “We’re doing fine.”

“Hm,” says Jade. Harry offers her a napkin to wipe Bane’s drool off her shin. 

Harry’s about ready to go back inside - the heat’s really getting to him - but the sliding door opens, and Zayn steps down onto the porch, shirtless and very, very sweaty. 

“What’ve you been up to, then?” Jade says appreciatively. 

“Got a little boxing in before lunch,” Zayn says, grinning at Jade and catching Harry’s eye. Harry’s having trouble processing words with all those abs in his face. 

“And how are you liking Greenview?” Jade asks. Zayn shrugs, licking across his bottom lip slowly, pink mouth open wide as if deep in thought. 

“S’ nice,” Zayn says, running a thumb inside the waistband of his shorts to yank them down a little bit. “Can’t complain, we’re settling in, working on it, you know.”

Harry abruptly leans back into his chair - he didn’t even realize he’d been hanging off the edge of it gawping at Zayn’s stomach, the muscled dips of his hips and the v-lines trailing off into his shorts. No drool though, thankfully. 

Zayn smirks wide, flinging a ratty towel over his shoulder as he turns to go back inside. “Gonna shower. Good to see you, Jade.”

Gazing off at a very specific point in space, Harry tries his best to look calm. Collected. And definitely not like he’s three seconds away from crying about the outline of Zayn’s dick in his shorts. 

“So it’s like that,” Jade says, quirking an eyebrow. 

“No,” Harry coughs. “What? No. It’s not like anything. Just two dudes. Hanging out. Working, I mean. _On assignment_. Together.”

“Hm,” Jade says, skeptical, but doesn’t press it. Bless her heart.

+++

“The water,” Harry says, flapping a hand at Zayn during breakfast, the week after their dinner with the Benoits. “When you said you needed to talk to me about the water. What did you mean?”

“Oh,” Zayn says. “Their tap water tastes normal. Ours tastes like ass. Thought it might mean something.”

“It means _something_ ,” Harry says, rubbing at his eyes. “We’ll keep it in mind. Alright. I’m off to work. See you tonight. Julia said to come over after dinner for drinks.”

To be totally convincing, Harry leaves for ‘work’ every morning and does his research at the office in the city, then comes back to the house around three each afternoon. Zayn hangs out at home, watches Bane, and works toward his apparent goal of turning the guest bedroom into an unbelievably messy art den. 

The Benoits are nothing but friendly. Harry and Zayn join them again for two more dinners, then a barbeque with some of Julia’s book club friends and Benoit’s colleagues, and then Sunday brunch on Harry and Zayn’s patio. 

So it’s going well. They’re planning on waiting for the next dinner invitation and then planting a hidden microphone behind the Jesus painting or maybe somewhere in Benoit’s study, if they can get in. Benoit doesn’t keep it locked up, Harry noticed, when he faked a sudden and violent attack of diarrhea at the barbeque to snoop around a little. There was an email from a Travis G., Head of Operations of Greenview-something lying on one of Benoit’s desks, but one of Julia’s cats snuck in behind him, yowling loudly, and he didn’t get a chance to look any closer.

Zayn’s acting a little more weird than usual. After that morning they slept together, Zayn has moments where Harry can tell he’s totally unguarded, just soft and relaxed and tactile. But Zayn usually realizes how he’s acting soon after, and straightens back up into Standoffish Zayn, who Harry doesn’t really care for. 

Harry’s also hoping for a replay of that morning, but he’ll settle for waking up each morning with Zayn drooling on his armpit.

+++

They join the Benoits for yet another evening of cocktails on the back porch. Benoit’s always got a drink in his hand - before, during, and after dinner. He never seems to get drunk, or even tipsy, which Harry can respect, but Harry’s been meaning to guide the conversation around to business and Benoit seems too shrewd for even vague questions while sober.

Zayn’s on one side of the glass-topped table with Julia, laughing and cupping his little glass of gin. The evening light’s washing over him bright and gold, sinking into his skin, and Harry wants them to be back on their own porch like this. He wants Zayn to laugh at something he said like that, and look at him like that. 

Benoit’s saying something -

“- still a great neighborhood, except those boys that moved in next to you; they’re living off one of the parents. Damn moochers.”

Harry nods, distracted, holding up his empty glass. “Be right back,” he says. “Can I get you another?”

Benoit declines, and Harry lopes inside, out of the golden warmth. Julia’s made some kind of plum drink, gin with little frozen plums instead of ice. Harry makes another, light on the gin, heavy on the plum juice. On his way out, there’s a sheaf of paper leaning against the wall under the Jesus painting - Harry checks to make sure Benoit’s not coming in, then picks it up by the binder clip at the top. 

It’s just row after row of chemical compounds and percentages, divided up between months. _Greenview_ , it says at the bottom. Harry flips through the stack. He vaguely recognizes a few sulphate compounds from first-year chemistry, but it means nothing to him. 

“Everything okay?” Benoit asks from the kitchen, his voice muffled. 

Harry has a small heart attack, sloshes a quarter of his drink onto the carpet, and manages to get the papers back against the wall before Benoit walks in. 

“All good,” Harry says, crouching down under the dining table and rubbing his fingers together like he’s beckoning a cat. “Your kitties are cute.”

Benoit snorts. “They’re straight from hell. Come back out, Julia’s asking for you.” 

Obliging, Harry walks out to the porch. Benoit lingers in the dining room; Harry catches a glimpse of the edge of the Jesus painting lifting up, Benoit’s arm disappearing behind it.

Twilight’s settling in around the grass. Zayn’s still draped in gold like he caught part of the sun, and Harry’s stomach twists against itself. 

“Hi,” Zayn says, giving Harry a little smile meant just for him. 

Harry drags a chair up next to him to share what’s left of the evening warmth. Julia tells them all about her asparagus garden. 

As the night winds down, Harry fills Zayn in under the guise of whispering low in his ear, enjoying the way Zayn shivers under each brush of his lips.

+++

“Muffin or waffle?” Harry asks, poking his head back into the bedroom, where Zayn’s tucked halfway under both of their pillows, half-asleep.

“Mfffle,” Zayn says, mostly into the duvet.

“Extremely unhelpful,” says Harry, grinning in spite of himself. 

Zayn’s arms are shoved under his head, pillowing his face and squashing his nose off to one side. Harry’s stomach clenches - it’s just how it feels to look at Zayn this way and know how his skin slides under your fingertips. “Hey, are we okay? You and me?”

Zayn holds still for a beat, then flops his head over on his arm to look at Harry leaning against the doorjamb. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says hesitantly. 

Harry waits, but that’s all he gets. “Okay,” he says, shrugging and quirking up the corner of his mouth so it comes off casual. Whatever, it’s not like he expected to hear all of Zayn’s innermost thoughts. 

“Wait,” says Zayn, just as Harry’s turning back to the kitchen. “It’s fine. I just… this is our _job_ , you know, we get one chance. And, you know, we work together, and I can’t - I’m a professional, Harry. No matter -”

No matter what, Harry wants to ask. He doesn’t push it, though. 

“Well - I’m a professional too, like. I just. Sorry. I know you don’t like me and I didn’t want this to make you miserable. Being stuck with me,” Harry says, flushing hot. 

Zayn laughs, short and loud, and shoves his head back under the pillow for a second. When he raises his eyes to Harry, they’re glinting. 

“God, Harry. We’re - we’re good. I’m not miserable. And I like you, yeah. Too much for my own good.”

“You do,” Harry says, incredulous. 

“Yes,” says Zayn, propping himself up on an elbow. “It can’t be helped. I mean, I do want to know some things. Like why you didn’t want me on your first assignment. We can talk about it later, I guess. But we’re okay, yeah.”

Harry grins, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and heads back to the kitchen before Zayn can change his mind. 

The doorbell sounds, and it’s the most unnerving, spine-tingling noise, somewhere between a cat getting stepped on and an off-key grandfather clock. Every time the postman delivers something, Zayn’s jumpy for three hours afterwards. 

This morning, it’s Julia, smiling cheerfully in a pastel-green sweater set and holding a thick sheaf of papers. 

“Morning,” she says brightly, tilting her head. “Mind if I ask you boys a favor?”

What she could possibly want from them, Harry has no idea. 

“Sure,” he says, moving out of the way so she can come in, waffle batter dripping all over the floor from the whisk he forgot to put down. 

Julia settles herself at the kitchen table, clearing a small space for herself amid the piles of cups and Zayn’s failed attempts at melted-crayon art. 

Harry has a small heart attack, then remembers he put all their case files and paperwork away in the study. _Good job, past me_ , he thinks. 

“So,” Julia starts, as Zayn stumbles in, shirtless, sleep-rumpled, and half his face lined with sheet imprints. 

Harry thinks he’s never looked better. 

But then again, he thinks that every time he sees Zayn. 

“What are you boys doing this weekend?” Julia asks, smiling earnestly, completely unfazed by the large amount of skin Zayn has on show. She’s a stronger person than Harry, that’s for sure. 

“No plans,” Zayn rasps, and his morning voice is honestly dangerous. Harry fumbles the whisk, flicking batter all over his face. 

“Would you be willing to house-sit for us? Our little babies need to be taken care of while we’re gone. Winston’s on a work trip and I’m joining him - oh, and we’ll pay you! All you’d need to do is feed the kitties and maybe water a couple plants.”

“That sounds fine,” Zayn says, poking around in the tea cupboard. Harry nods vigorously, trying to smile like a normal person and not like one who’s achieved all his dreams at once. 

“Wonderful!” Julia says. “I’ll leave the instructions with you. We’ll be gone Friday afternoon through Monday morning. But that’s all in the folder. Thank you so, so much, you’re doing us a huge favor.”

Zayn smiles, following her out to the front door. “It’s really no problem. Have a great trip.”

When Zayn makes it back to the kitchen, Harry’s leafing through the fifty-odd pages of instructions. 

“Mittens will only eat organic salmon,” Harry says offhandedly.

“I don’t hate you,” Zayn says, leaning against the counter behind Harry. 

Harry snorts. “Always good to hear, thanks.”

Even though he’s aware Zayn’s attracted to him, and okay, maybe doesn’t completely hate him with every fiber of his being, there’s still a residual hurt. 

“I don’t,” Zayn repeats, softer this time. Harry still hasn’t turned around. “I thought I might like you too much, you know, if I got to know you. Which could affect our work. So I made sure we didn’t.”

“Oh,” Harry says into the house-sitting manual, and that makes sense. Zayn, ever the professional. 

“Wanted you to know. You’re burning my waffle,” Zayn says, but wraps himself around Harry from the back and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder anyway. 

“And congratulations to us,” Zayn says, low in Harry’s ear, and Harry has to suppress a shiver. 

“Your waffle,” Harry says, looking over at the stove, but Zayn’s kissing at his neck and shoving him forward against the table softly, and the waffle is ignored until it sets off the smoke alarm.

+++

Friday rolls around before either of them can really plan anything.

“We’ll check out the house tonight,” Harry says, chewing on the end of a pen. “Then Saturday we can search it, Sunday follow-up on anything we missed.”

Zayn nods, reading from the handbook Julia left. “Six-fifteen… Mittens needs salmon, George needs 5.7 ounces of tinned cat food, and Aristotle needs a scoop and three-eighths of dry food. And the fish need to be fed at six forty-five. All food can be found in the lower right drawer of the refrigerator next to the ketchup, except the fish food, which is next to the fish tank.” 

Zayn looks up, amused. “This is overkill. She’s made little biographies for all the animals. Even the fish. Listen - Donatello, the second biggest goldfish, likes swimming, architecture, and golfing in his spare time.”

“Why,” Harry says, shaking his head. 

At six-fifteen, Zayn, Harry, and the giant manual make their way over to the Benoits’. 

“No apparent video surveillance,” Zayn says, keeping his voice low as he hands Harry the tin of fish food. 

“Good,” Harry says. “I swept for audio, nothing so far. Could be something in Benoit’s office.”

Zayn nods appreciatively, cracking a tin of cat food open for George. Or maybe this one’s Aristotle. They’re all white, Harry can’t really tell the difference. 

Zayn’s wearing green cargo pants and a tight black turtleneck. He looks like Kim Possible. 

“You look like Kim Possible,” Harry says, which Zayn doesn’t dignify with a response.

Harry feeds the fish, then watches two of them battle it out for a piece of food until there’s a high-pitched yowl from the kitchen, followed by a loud yelp and a few creative curses. 

“It bit me,” Zayn says, holding his hand out, where there’s a little half-moon of pink toothmarks. 

“Weenie,” Harry says. “He didn’t even break the skin. You probably scared him. C’mere, George,” he says, and squats down near the hissing, prickly cat. 

“George is a girl cat,” Zayn says, sulking off to the sink to clean his hand. 

Harry manages to calm George down with a piece of string and some light ear-scratches, but all three cats keep their distance from Zayn, skulking around corners to follow him and hissing loudly whenever he makes sudden movements. 

Benoit’s study is strangely empty, free of any paper clutter on the desk or in the cabinets, but his desktop computer sits near the window. Harry wiggles the mouse, and it’s still on, but he needs a password.

“Zayn,” he says. “Come work your magic.”

Zayn slips into his own little world when he’s hacking or breaking into things; his movements get sharper and he’s completely focused on the task at hand - it’s kind of really hot, to be honest. 

While Zayn might be fun to watch, the actual computer hacking isn’t. It’s nothing like what Harry’s seen in movies, all that green text and rapid-fire typing. Just a lot of code and really boring-looking gray screens.

“Okay,” Zayn says, swivelling his chair away from the computer and offering it to Harry a while later. “After you. I’ll wipe it when you’re done.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, already distracted by Benoit’s screensaver of him and some man in a suit shaking hands. He takes a photo to look at later, then pulls up Benoit’s email. Nothing there - but in the Trash folder, it’s absolute gold.

“Told youuu,” Harry sing-songs, opening something from Conwall, but it’s only a forwarded political cartoon. There’s a ton of promotional emails, more correspondence with Conwall that doesn’t provide any leads, e-receipts from some sex shop in the next town over - Harry makes a note of Benoit’s affinity for Puritan-era roleplay - and then, just as Harry’s about to give up, an email from a Mr. Garret. Travis. 

_Thank you for your continued cooperation_ , blah blah, _we look forward to future partnerships_.

Standard, Harry thinks. But then at the bottom, the last paragraph -

> _-due to the company’s current financial status, I would like to reevaluate our current agreement. I’m sure we can come to a resolution that benefits both of us equally. At this time, an increased contribution on your part will help maintain your security._

Harry frowns. That doesn’t make sense. It sounds like someone’s blackmailing Benoit - and then he sees the signature.

> _Travis Garret, Head of Operations - Greenview Water Purification._

Harry’s frozen still. This has to be connected - the fact that Benoit represents the plant, and that he’s in personal contact with the head of operations discussing money -

Zayn slips back into the study, brandishing a thick folder. 

“Behind the painting, like you’d said,” he smirks, tossing it onto the desk in front of Harry. “What a cliche.”

Zayn cleans up Harry’s history as Harry tells him about Garret’s email, then shuts the computer back down and wipes their prints off. 

“This still means nothing to me,” Harry says, thumbing through sheet after sheet of water analysis reports and lists of chemical levels. 

“Yeah, beats me,” Zayn says. “I almost failed Chem in uni. Snap some photos, let’s get out of here.”

There’s something wiggling around in the back of Harry’s head, but he lets it go for now. He’ll light some candles, have a bath, and think about it later. 

“C’mon, it’s so late - I wanna sleep tonight, Zayn,” Harry says, as Zayn meticulously washes and dries the cat dishes. 

“Stop whining,” says Zayn, wiping his hands on the dishtowel. 

“Or what,” Harry prods, cocking a hip out to the side. 

Zayn sighs. “Or I’ll give you something to whine about,” he says. Harry can’t help but giggle. 

“That was _awful_ ,” Harry says, but … interesting. 

He shuts up about Zayn’s cleaning habits and runs a palm along the line of Zayn’s back, instead, digging his fingers into the curve of Zayn’s hip as Zayn finishes up the dishes.

“This is what you meant, yeah?” Harry whispers into Zayn’s hair as they make their way up the steps to their house, keeping his voice low and gravelly. Zayn doesn’t answer, just spins Harry to the left as soon as they walk in, slamming the door shut with a kick of his foot. Zayn pins Harry to the wall - a little roughly; Harry doesn’t mind, but Zayn is quick with an apology. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Zayn says, pulling back fast. 

“‘M fine,” Harry mumbles, biting down hard on his bottom lip. Zayn looks wrecked already, his eyes half-closed, hair mussed and like he’s three seconds away from diving into Harry. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, and yanks Zayn back in by the collar of his shirt. 

Zayn kisses like he acts - all slow, deep pulls, flicking his tongue like an afterthought. Harry’s stomach clenches with each little bite Zayn gives his bottom lip, and it’s not soon after that their hands start wandering roughly, yanking at the hems of each others’ shirts and shoving jackets off. 

Zayn’s got his face buried in Harry’s neck, sucking lightly and nipping at the soft skin when Harry pulls away for a second, his eyes half-shut and glazed with want. 

Zayn’s uncomfortably hard in his jeans. 

“Lemme make you feel good,” Harry purrs, voice low and gravelly. 

“Fuck,” says Zayn, but it comes out as a strangled moan. Harry’s sunk to his knees in front of Zayn, cupping the outline of Zayn’s dick with two giant hands. 

“Yeah,” Harry groans, pitching forward. Zayn’s trousers get shoved down to mid-thigh, and Harry presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of Zayn’s hips, right where his legs meet his body. Harry’s tongue is swirling wet and so, so close to Zayn’s dick. 

Zayn pushes his cock a little closer to Harry’s mouth, just in case he needs the help. 

Harry does not need the help, and instead runs the tip of his tongue along the crease of Zayn’s thigh, lapping slick and sucking the skin between his lips, soft and hot. 

Harry’s rubbing at his own dick through his jeans, and that can’t be comfortable. But he seems to be enjoying himself - he’s practically panting as he angles Zayn’s cock toward his mouth, eyes squeezed shut and making little choked-off sounds with each exhale. 

“Oh, fuck,” Harry groans. 

“Yeah, come on,” Zayn grits out, shivering with the hot puff of air Harry breathes over his cock.

“No, I figured it out,” Harry says, scrambling off his knees and wiping at his puffy, red lips. “Our water tastes like battery acid. Theirs tastes fine, like you said?”

“Harry -" Zayn’s kind of cold, not to mention extremely frustrated with his dick hanging out like this. Literally point five seconds away from getting head, and Harry has some kind of epiphany. This is his life.

Harry plows on, eyes sparkling as he paces out little choppy steps in front of Zayn’s still-impressive hard-on. “Benoit represents the purification site. Garret has some sort of arrangement with Benoit - and he wants more money to keep what he knows quiet. Benoit has a shady history overall, like, take your pick of what Garret’s hiding for him. Yeah?”

Harry speeds up as he finishes his train of thought, eyes wide, watching Zayn excitedly. 

“And in return, Benoit keeps quiet about the plant’s water pollution,” Zayn says, nodding at Harry, one hand on his dick to relieve some of the pressure. “How did you do that?”

Harry shrugs, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s just a guess. We’d need more correspondence between Garret and Benoit, plus more information on the water quality over the past years. Which we can get,” Harry says, leaning over to squash Zayn’s face between his palms. “Zayn, you magnificent, beautiful man.”

“Great,” Zayn says. “Amazing. I’m so happy.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” Harry says, easing back down onto his knees in front of Zayn. 

“Uh - well,” Zayn stutters. Harry finally, finally sucks him down, flicking his tongue as he pulls off. 

“Quitters never win,” Harry says, winking up at Zayn.

+++

By Sunday night, they’ve put together a solid case. With more digging after figuring out what they needed to look for, Harry unearthed an email proving Benoit had been skimming profits off clients’ businesses since day one, plus some deal he had with the city mayor for free parking. Dick. Parking in the city is so hard to find.

“I think we’ve got it,” Zayn says. “Call Jeffries?”

“Nah,” Harry says, shoving his toes under Zayn’s thigh on the couch, avoiding the piles of printouts Zayn’s strewn everywhere. “You should have the honors. You’re the one that figured it out.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and re-adjusts to accept Harry’s toes, which is amazing. Zayn never lets Harry’s feet touch him. “I’ll put him on speaker. Don’t fart like you did last time. We are professionals.”

“Whatever,” Harry says. “It’s a natural human function. I’ll email Jeffries the files now.”

Jeffries, as expected, manages to sound thoroughly unimpressed and even conveys a kind of ‘took you long enough’ vibe, Harry thinks. But he can hear Jeffries’ relief and excitement, and Harry feels like he can relax for the first time in a month. 

“We actually pulled that off,” Zayn says, after a while spent silently tossing treats to Bane. 

“You doubted?” Harry gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. 

“We’re kind of dysfunctional,” says Zayn. Bane sneezes, spraying Chikn-Bits everywhere. 

Harry grins, getting up to make tea, and Zayn starts their new TV show that he refuses to miss, even for blowjobs. 

Bane follows him into the kitchen, hoping for handouts, and Harry can’t help but feel like this is where he’s always wanted to be.

+++

Turns out that Zayn was completely right - they even get to watch from their kitchen window while Benoit’s shoved into the back of a police car for his ride to court. Julia doesn’t look too distraught, Harry thinks. Maybe it’s a good thing.

Packing up is a stilted affair - all of Harry’s things have migrated into Zayn’s and the other way round. Harry has a stack of boxes labelled ‘Harry’ and Zayn has his own stack, on the other side of the room, labelled ‘Zayn’. 

That feels somewhat significant. 

“Have you figured out where you’re living?” Harry asks, as they load their things into the moving truck outside. 

“With my family, for a bit,” Zayn says. “Gotta find a new place.”

“Me too,” Harry says slowly. “But, you know - rent could be cheaper with two.”

Zayn grins, a small thing, 

“Then Bane wouldn’t have to choose one of us,” Zayn says. 

Bane thumps her tail against Harry’s leg, resting her head on Zayn’s knee. 

“I’ll call you,” Harry says, looking up at Zayn through his hair, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I promise. I’ll call you every day.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” says Zayn, rolling his eyes. “We’re driving to the same place. I’ll see you in literally ten minutes.”

Harry smiles, and lunges forward again to plant a sloppy kiss on the side of Zayn’s mouth. Bane licks their ankles.  


**Author's Note:**

> title from Frank Ocean's Back, which is SUCH a jam.
> 
> thanks so much for reading!! comments about your favorite line or part are my lifeblood, if you feel so inclined.


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